Tailchaser's Song (8 page)

He hung for a moment, maddened with surprise and terror.
Tok!
...
tok-tok-a-tok!
—and another shower of nuts and stones hailed down on him. Fritti began to yowl piteously.

“Why are you—ow!—hurting me—ow!” he cried, and was rewarded with a hazelnut on his sensitive pink nose.

“I have done nothing to harm anyone here! Why are you hurt—ow!—hurting me?”

There was another swift series of knocks, followed by quiet. Then, from the trees above, came a shrill, chittering voice.

“No harm it says-says!” The voice was high-pitched and angry. “Liar-liar-liar! You-you! Are killer! Coming here, here hunt and kill. Liar-cat-liar!”

Although it spoke in a fast-paced and excited way, Fritti could understand its Common Singing. He struggled for a better grip on the roots.

“Tell me what I have done!” he pleaded, hoping for time to regain the edge of safety just a paw-reach away. Angry chattering that he could not understand came from all the trees at once; then the rapping noise quieted the voices again.

“We are not stupid nut-droppers, no-no. Bad, so-bad cat, the people of the Rikchikchik not for you, for you to tease and fool, oh no no!”

The Rikchikchik! The squirrel-folk! Even hanging at clawtips from a bramble bush, Fritti felt a moment’s wonder. It was known they would hiss and scold intruders, and even fight viciously when cornered—they were among the strongest and bravest of the Squeaker-folk. But band together to attack one of the Folk, one who had not even been stalking? It was incredible!

“Hear me, O Rikchikchik!” Fritti cried. His claws were beginning to feel the strain. “Hear me! I know your kind and mine are enemies, but that is honor-able! We are as we are made. But I promise that I do not intend to molest you, or harm your nests. I am searching for a friend, and I will not eat or hunt here! I swear by the First!” He waited tensely for a reaction, but the trees were silent.

Then a large brown squirrel made his way down the trunk of an aspen—headfirst and slowly—and stopped not two jumps away from Tailchaser’s precarious position. The Rikchikchik looked angry, its lips pulled back from long front teeth, but it was only one-quarter Fritti’s size. He had to admire its bravery.

“Tails, teeth, lies. This is-is what cats is!” The squirrel still spoke angrily, but more slowly, and was easier to understand. “Can trust? No. Cat has got-got Mistress Whir. So-bad cats!”

“I haven’t harmed anyone, I swear!” cried Fritti plaintively.

“Many tooth-and-claws attack nests! Even now, now, killing cat has caught my chiknek, my ... mate. Caught! Spoiled seeds—unburied nuts! Terror, terror!”

Pains were shooting up Tailchaser’s legs, and he was finding it hard to think. He extended a paw carefully to the cliff’s edge, to relieve the pressure on his hind legs. A stone from a tree above struck the questing paw—he almost lost his grip as he pulled the injured foot back. A shrill chorus of squirrel voices in the foliage above called out for blood.

He tried to concentrate on what the brown squirrel was saying.

“Do you mean that a cat has your mate right now? Nearby?”

“Bones of birds! Horror, woe! Poor Mistress Whir. Caught, caught she is!”

Fritti seized at the opportunity. “Listen to me! Please, throw no rocks down. I am at your mercy. I will try to save your mate, if you only let me get up from this place! You don’t have to trust me. Go back into your trees, and if I try to escape, or harm you, you can drop boulders on me, pumpkins, anything! It’s your only chance to save her!”

Tail erect and trembling, the large brown squirrel fixed him with a bright eye. For a moment all was frozen in the tableau: the stone-still squirrel and the small orange cat, grimacing in pain and hanging from a bush above a steep fall. Then the Rikchikchik spoke.

“You go. Save chiknek and you free-free. Word of Master Fizz. Sacred Oak-promise. Follow, we lead you, lead you.”

With a leap and scrabble, Master Fizz was gone into the leafy branches above. Tailchaser carefully pulled himself up to where he could get a better grip, then got his back paws up against the bramble roots for leverage and jumped to safety. He was weaker than he thought. His muscles trembled as he clambered up onto solid earth, and he lay for a moment panting. The Rikchikchik made excited noises among the leaves. He got painfully to his feet, and their chirruping voices led him forward.

On the outskirts of a grove of black oaks the Rikchikchik came to a halt. Tailchaser could see what had happened.

One of the old trees had fallen over long ago, forming a huge arch. He could hear the frightened crying of a squirrel from beneath it, and smell the scent of one of the Folk. The sheltering oak shielded the cat so that it could finish its game in peace without being disturbed by the stones and nuts of the vengeful Rikchikchik.

Fritti crept slowly and cautiously around the mop of dead roots that extended from one end of the fallen tree. However he was going to persuade the other cat to give up its rightful hunt-prey, he would have to begin with deference and care. So as not to startle, he called, “Good dancing, hunt-brother,” as he walked under the arching trunk. He stopped short.

Mistress Whir, her eyes bulging with panic, lay pinned beneath the paw of a large, sand-colored tom. The hunter raised his head inquiringly as Fritti approached. It was Stretchslow.

“Well! Young Tailchaser.” Stretchslow did not rise or move his paw from the terrified squirrel, but gave a nod of greeting that was not unfriendly. “Isn’t this a surprise! I was expecting you through this area eventually, but waiting is so boring.” He started to yawn, then caught himself. “Well, now that you’ve arrived, would you like to share my catch with me? She’s a nice fat one, as you can see. Had quite a bit of fight in her, too—at first. Stimulates the appetite.”

Things were happening too fast for Fritti. “You were waiting ... for me?” he asked. “I don’t understand.”

Stretchslow sneezed humorously at Fritti’s bewilderment. “I expect you don’t. Well, plenty of time for all that after a toothsome bit of Rikchikchik. Sure you’re not hungry?” Stretchslow raised his paw to deal the squirrel a killing blow.

“Stop!!” Fritti cried.

Stretchslow was now the one to look surprised. He squinted at Tailchaser with keen interest—as if Fritti had grown a second tail.

“What’s wrong, youngling?” inquired the older male. “Is this some strange sort of poison squirrel?”

“Yes ... no ... oh, Stretchslow, could you let her go?” asked Fritti weakly.

“Let her go?” The hunter was genuinely astonished. “Heavenly Viror, why?”

“I promised the other squirrels that I would rescue her.” Fritti felt as if he were turning to dust under the curious stare of the other cat, dust that would blow away in the next strong breeze. After a moment’s careful scrutiny of Fritti, Stretchslow gave an immense huff of laughter and rolled onto his back, waggling his paws in the air. The she-squirrel did not move, but lay still, breathing shallowly, her eyes glazed.

Stretchslow rolled to his stomach and gave Fritti an affectionate thump with a large forepaw. “Oh, Tailchewer,” he wheezed, “I knew I was right! Going on quests! Saving squirrel maidens! Whoof! What a song yours will be!” Stretchslow shook his head from side to side with merriment, then turned his attention back to the huddled Rikchikchik. Fritti’s nose burned. He did not know if he was being praised or mocked—or both.

“Very well, then,” Stretchslow said to Mistress Whir. “You heard Master Tailchaser. He has interceded for your life. Go now, before I change my mind.” The squirrel lay still. Fritti began to move forward—afraid Stretchslow had inadvertently broken her back—when she suddenly bolted between them, sending chips of bark flying, and disappeared from beneath the oak-tree arch.

 

 

“I wish I had the leisure to hear your story of how you came to be making promises to squirrels, but there are things I still must do before the Eye appears.”

They were walking together beneath the giant trees—Fritti moving quickly to keep up with Stretchslow.

“However, I need to have more important talk with you. I was sure you would decide to leave on your own, but I miscalculated how soon you would set out. So, I have been searching for you since the beginning of Smaller Shadows.”

“Stretchslow, I am afraid I do not understand you at all. Not in the least, and I beg your pardon. What could you possibly have to say to a silly youngling like me? And how did you know I would come searching for Hushpad alone? And how did you know which direction I’d choose?” Fritti was gasping faintly as he struggled to maintain the older cat’s pace.

“Many questions, little hunter. Not all can be answered now. Suffice it to say that I do not learn all I know at the Meeting Wall. I have wandered far in my day, and sniffed many, many things. I do admit that nowadays I derive a great deal of pleasure from sun-soaking—certainly I do not hunt as far afield as I once did. But, still, I have my ways.

“As to your other questions,” he continued, “well, even a M‘an-fed eunuch could have smelled your every intention, little quester. I have known since before Nose-meet—since before you knew yourself—that you would be striking out after little Marshbat.”

“Hushpad,” puffed Fritti. “Her name is Hushpad.”

“Of course, Hushpad. I know,” said Stretchslow with impatience—and perhaps a touch of fondness. “It is my way,” he added simply.

Stretchslow stopped suddenly, and Tailchaser fumbled to a halt beside him. Fixing Fritti with his great green eyes, the hunter said: “There are strange things afoot, and not just in the Old Woods. The Rikchikchik and the Folk making bargains is not the strangest. I cannot sense what is happening with certainty, but my whiskers tell me bewildering stories. You have a part to play, Tailchaser.”

“How could I ...” Fritti began to protest, but Stretchslow silenced him with a paw gesture.

“I have no more time, I fear. Smell the wind.”

Fritti inhaled. Indeed, the breeze did carry a strange smell of cold and damp earth, but his senses could make nothing of it.

“You must learn to trust your feelings, Tailchaser,” said Stretchslow. “You have some natural gifts there that may aid you where your lack of experience leads you into trouble. Remember, use the senses that Meerclar gave you. And be patient.”

Stretchslow sniffed the air again, but Fritti could no longer smell anything unusual. The older cat then rubbed his nose on Tailchaser’s flank.

“Keep your left shoulder to the setting sun when you leave the forest,” he said. “That should put you in a profitable direction. Do not hesitate to speak my name as recommendation on your journey. In some fields I am well remembered. Now, I must leave.”

Stretchslow trotted forward a few paces. Fritti, overwhelmed by events, sat watching him go.

The big cat turned around. “Have you had your Initiation to the Hunt, Tailchaser?”

“Umm ...” Disconcerted, Fritti needed a moment to assemble his thoughts. “Umm, no. The ceremony would have been the Meeting after Eye-next.”

Stretchslow shook his head and loped back to him. “There is not time, nor proper surroundings, for the Hunt-singing,” he said, “but I shall do the best I can.” In a daze, Fritti watched as Stretchslow settled back on his powerful haunches and closed his eyes. Then, in a voice much sweeter than expected, he sang.

Stretchslow sat with his eyes tight shut for a moment, then opened them and sprang to his feet again. No trace of the slowspeaking, slow-moving cat that Fritti had known seemed left but the cool gleam in his eyes. He appeared charged with purpose and energy; as he approached, Tailchaser involuntarily shrank back.

Stretchslow, however, only reached out and touched his paw to Fritti’s forehead. “Welcome, hunter,” he said, then turned and sprinted away—pausing briefly at the edge of a facing thicket to call: “May you find luck dancing, young Tailchaser.” With that, Stretchslow vanished into the undergrowth.

Fritti Tailchaser sank to the ground in amazement. Had all this really happened? He had been gone less than a day from his home, and yet it seemed forever. Everything was so astonishing!

He brought his hind foot up and began to scratch behind his ear—an outlet for the conflicting blur of emotions. As he scratched wildly, eyes half closed, he sensed movement all around. He leaped to his feet, alarmed.

The surrounding trees were full of flicker-tailed squirrels.

One of the larger ones—not the squirrel he had spoken with earlier—had shinnied down an elm trunk to his own eye level, and it clung there and looked at him.

“You-you, cat-thing,” it said. “Now come along-come. Now you talk-talk. Time you talk with Lord Snap.”

The difficulty to think at the end of the day,
When the shapeless shadow covers the sun
And nothing is left except light on your fur—

—Wallace Stevens

 

 

 

 

 

 

Fritti was climbing high into the treetops. The Rikchikchik who had summoned him stayed several branches ahead, leading him upward. Behind and all about, the rest of the squirrel party were leaping and chattering in their own tongue. He felt as though he had been climbing for days.

In the dizzying upper levels of the great live oak the procession halted for a moment. Fritti sat on a none-too-wide branch and waited for his breath to come back. Like all cats, he was a good climber, but he outweighed his squirrel companions manyfold. He had to cling tighter and maintain better balance than they, especially up here where the branches were getting thinner: from time to time a limb had swayed dizzyingly under him, forcing him to climb quickly to a sturdier one.